


Do two foxes need a prince?

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, if at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4749944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here Javert was, lying flat on a concrete rooftop at three in the morning, waiting for the catch of the decade: two associates of a drug cartel the Parisian police has been trying to uproot for years now.</p><p>When a figure finally emerges from the shadows it's the last person Javert expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an odd little thing: both an AU and a sort-of crossover, as it's meant to star Book!jolras and Crowe!vert, or at least my best attempt at writing them.

It was a cold November night. The stars were covered by thick clouds that promised snow, and the wind was also picking up. Fog was rolling down the streets and breathed frost on every surface.

Definitely not the kind of weather suited for lying flat on the concrete roof of a building, at three in the morning, as Detective Inspector Javert was finding out. Not that he expected his job to be easy or comfortable when he signed up at La Crime, the murder squad of the Paris police force, but this was frankly ridiculous. His limbs were going numb and he was beginning to think that his blood must have turned into jelly in his veins by now.

He let his mind wonder for a while, daydreaming (or, technically, arse-o-clock-in-the-morning-dreaming) about the mug of hot chocolate with rum he’d promised himself after they were done here.

Still, the prospective reward for this case made any sacrifice worthwhile: a few days ago the Organised Crime department reached a breakthrough on a case they have been working on for years now: they managed to intercept a message confirming the date and place of a transaction of millions of Euros worth of cocaine. As one of the people involved in the transaction was also suspect in a murder case Javert has been investigating he was also asked to come along.

Something moved near the stairway of the building, startling Javert out of his reverie.

 So they were early. But by almost forty minutes? Well, maybe they were trying to be cautious. Hah.

Javert held his breath. From the corner of his eye he’s caught his sergeant shifting. Bloody idiot, if he screws this up…

The figure slowly came into view. Javert strained to get a better look at them – and stared. And stared some more.

It was Enjolras, activist-and-general-nuisance turned investigative journalist-and-general-nuisance. What in the name of everything holy was he doing here? Did one of his more incompetent colleagues let something slip and now the little bastard was trying to round the case up by himself?

Or was he involved in it? Has all his talk of justice and truth, all his righteous fury been one big lie?

By this time Enjolras has reached the railing on the edge of the roof and leant against it, staring out over the city. He was standing with his back to Javert, so he couldn’t get a look at his face, but it seemed as if his shoulders were shaking.

And then he climbed up and over the railing, coming to a stand on its other side, staring downwards.

Well. At least that meant he wasn’t involved with the cartel.

Javert frowned. While most of his mind was cursing Murphy’s Law and the young journalist, his heart clenched with unfamiliar compassion. After all it was only two years since he himself had spent a whole night staring into the Seine after an eye-opening conversation with the ex-convict Valjean.

His thoughts were racing. Compassion or no compassion, he had to do something, had to get the boy down from there, and preferably inwards and in one piece. If the cartel’s associates arrived and found a splattered body on the pavement, possibly with an officer already making notes about it, it was unlikely they’d go through with the transaction.

Movement caught Javert’s eyes. Someone from Organised Crime was already creeping towards Enjolras. Javert signed at them to stay put and carefully made his way towards the journalist.

The young man was still gripping the railing, gazing downwards. Javert raised a hand to grip his coat – but then a pebble he stepped on scratched against the concrete, alerting Enjolras of his presence. The man’s head whipped up. For a moment they stared at each other, frozen.

‘Javert?’

‘Enjolras. Step away from the railing, please.’

‘That was the plan. Please go.’ said Enjolras, scooting away from him.

Javert sighed. He knew what he was going to do went against everything in the rulebook of talking down suicidal people.

‘I can’t. This place was marked as the meeting point of two associates of a drug cartel we’ve been trying to bring down for decades. If we catch them red handed, doing a transaction, it could be a vital point of evidence. _They are meant to arrive in half an hour!_ ’

Enjolras was looking at him with pain clearly written on his fair features. Javert knew perfectly well that guilt tripping was never a solution, and wouldn’t help the boy on the long run, but right now he was desperate to get him down and away from the edge and appealing to Enjolras’ sense of duty seemed more promising than to try and rouse his will to live right here and now. If only he lived long enough Javert could find someone to patch his little heart up properly after he was done with the dealers.

Finally Enjolras sighed and bowed his head, letting a few tears run down his cheeks.

‘…I suppose these associates finding my body wouldn’t help your case much.’

‘No. Definitely not.’

Javert frowned. Surely he wouldn’t jump just to spite him? They’ve known each other for almost a decade now, if only fleetingly, and despite starting out as close to mortal enemies as Javert could ever be with anyone who wasn’t explicitly a criminal they were now at least civil towards each other. Admittedly, Javert’s subtle shift from Law to Justice following his breakdown must have played a part in it.

Slowly, painfully slowly Enjolras climbed back over the railing. When his feet finally hit the ground he wrapped his arms around himself and began to walk away, head bowed, defeated.

Javert grabbed his arm.

‘Stay. They should be here any minute now, I don’t want you to bump into them.’

 _That, or you to wander off and kill yourself somewhere else_ , he added in his mind. He pulled Enjolras down to where he has been lying and wrapped an arm around his back to keep him down.

‘These are a nasty bunch’ he whispered into the young man’s ear ‘Their main profile is drugs, but they are also involved in human trafficking. They target young women and children. They’ve also been involved in the killing of M. Lebrun. That’s why my team is here.’

Enjolras nodded slightly. The violent death of the wealthy banker and his entire family was top news for days, no doubt the journalist already knew all the details it was humanly possible to acquire.

After that for a while Enjolras’ soft breathing was all he heard, his back rising and falling under his arm the only movement.

Just when Javert was getting numb from the cold again something stirred at the stairway. Two dark figures moved towards the railing and stopped at almost exactly the same spot Enjolras chose to jump. For a few minutes they were whispering to each other – and then – _there_ – a suitcase was switched between them.

Reflectors flashed as the chief of the Department of Organised Crime whipped out a loudspeaker and let the gangsters know that they were surrounded, that all resistance was futile. Javert and the rest of the officers from La Crime also sprang to their feet, guns in hand.

But unfortunately there criminals weren’t the sensible kind. After a moment of confusion one of them flung the incriminating suitcase over the railing, the other raised his gun, pointed it right at Javert…

In the next moment so many things happened all at once that even Javert’s seasoned copper brain took a second to catch up. He heard the gun going off and found himself on the ground – but miraculously unhurt. By the time he looked up his sergeant has already wrestled the gun from the gangster, and the other, the one that threw the suitcase away was squirming in the grip of two men from Organised Crime.

Javert blinked and looked around, frowning.

Enjolras was lying beside him, cradling his bleeding arm, staring ahead listlessly. For a moment all Javert could do was to sit there and look at him incredulously. When his shock finally eased up a little he quickly stripped off his scarf and pressed it down on the wound.

‘You’re not going anywhere. Not now. Not like this.’


	2. Chapter 2

Javert was deep in thought, troubled. His first time visiting Enjolras in the hospital didn’t go well. Granted, he was there in his official capacity, taking Enjolras’ testimony (he was a witness after all) but while the injury the young man sustained was a lot less serious than Javert originally feared, he looked as good as dead. At least on the inside.

Hooked on an antibiotics IV, he answered Javert’s questions dutifully, but his replies were monosyllabic, his voice toneless and he wouldn’t look at the inspector. The nurse also told him that he refused his food.

At this rate he was going to hang himself the moment he was discharged. Between the skin wound, the blood loss and the broken humerus Javert had roughly two weeks to rekindle his will to live, before he was released.

But then, why should he bother, who was this boy to him?

The man who saved his life, that’s who. According to the ballistic expert the angles suggested that if the journalist didn’t push Javert out of the way he would have been shot squarely in the chest. So what if it was just an attempt to go through with his suicide? Uncool motive, still life-saving.

And now Javert was indebted to him. He hated being indebted.

He had to pay it back, the alternative was out of the question. Which left him with no choice but to try and take care of this idiot.

But how to proceed? Knowing what led him to that roof in the first place was of course vital, but to get that out of him he’d have to get him to at least properly talk to him.

Which in turn meat he’d have to Act Friendly and to Cheer the man Up. He’d have to visit him again, of course, and this time in personal capacity. But how to act? What to do? Should he bring something?

Dr Arazi from Forensics insisted that the occasion called for flowers. (And how she knew what happened in the first place was another small mystery – damn the nest of gossip that was the Parisian police.)

As he had no other idea he supposed he might take her suggestion – so, flowers it was.

Next day, when he was done double checking the scene of the Lebrun murder he went to find a flower shop.

Even though (or maybe because) this was a district he didn’t regularly frequent he found one surprisingly easily. He entered – and stopped in the doorway, completely at loss. Did the boy even like flowers? What was his favourite colour?

 ‘Did it take you two years to change your mind and arrest me anyway, or are you actually looking for flowers, Javert?’

Startled, the DI looked up. Behind the counter stood no other than Jean Valjean.

‘Oh.’ he murmured under his breath ‘It’s you. Small world.’

Out loud he said:

‘Flowers. Just flowers.’

Valjean visibly relaxed, although he still seemed a bit wary – and very much disbelieving.

‘Do you have anything in mind, or would you like some help?’

Javert scratched the back of his head. Well. If the bastard gave him a heart he might as well teach him how to use it.

‘I haven’t a first idea what I’m looking for. I need to express gratitude and try to cheer someone up.’

Valjean stepped out from behind the counter. Javert’s frank if flustered answer seemed to reassure him somewhat that their meeting truly was nothing but chance.

‘What do we know of this person?’

‘Male, thirtysomething, journalist, currently suicidal.’

Valjean winced. ‘Poor boy. Well, in this case I suppose the composition of the bouquet is close to immaterial, but still, it’s a good idea, it shows that you care. Unless of course he has a favourite flower? Does he?’

‘Damned if I know.’

‘Who is he, if you don’t mind me asking? A friend? A colleague?’

‘A thorn in my side.’

‘…Do you make a habit of bringing flowers to the thorns in your side, depressed or not?’

‘You’re not getting any if that’s what you’re trying to ask. And I don’t know if he’s depressed or not. But now that you mention it… I may have an idea why he did it.’

He sank into a thoughtful silence, waving off Valjean’s inquiry. Four days ago Gilles Beaudreau, secretary of state won a lawsuit against a newspaper that published an article accusing him of embezzlement, and allegedly, produced some pretty serious evidence. As the case didn’t involve any bodies Javert didn’t bother to follow it closely, what he knew he gathered from (that damnable, pesky) office gossip. The newspaper was forced to issue a public apology and to fire the author of the article, who was also fined for libel.

Now that Javert thought about it, the paper in question was the one Enjolras was writing for. He took out his phone and quickly pulled up some corresponding articles.

Yep, the condemned author was Enjolras.

He looked up. Valjean was looking back at him, with his head tilted.

‘I have some nice red carnations if you still want them.’

***

This was how Javert found himself in front of the door of a sickroom, a bouquet of carnations in hand, hoping to hell none of his colleagues catch him like that. Taking a deep breath, he entered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that Valjean being the owner of the flower shop is improbable at best, but I'll apologise for convoluted coincidences when Hugo does. :P


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras didn’t appear to have moved since the last time he saw him.

He way lying back in bed, pale, staring up at the ceiling with empty eyes. Javert took another deep breath, pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.

‘Here’ he murmured, setting down the carnations on the nightstand. Enjolras glanced at them with mild confusion, but then his face settled back into an impassive mask.

‘So’ said Javert, clearing his throat ‘How are you today?’

No answer.

‘It’s such a fine day. For November. If you like fog. And frost. And slippery roads.’

Still nothing. Well then. Screw small talk, he never had patience for it anyway.

‘It was about the Beaudreau affair, wasn’t it?’

Enjolras looked down.

‘That was the last straw, yes.’

‘And the rest of the hay-sack?’

No answer. Javert frowned at the far wall. This was even harder than he’d imagined. He needed time…  
With a sudden impulse he turned back to the journalist.

‘Do you still have the evidence you’ve gathered?’

‘Yes. I didn’t get anything back I submitted to court. Charts, bills, voice recordings, nothing. But I have copies.’

Javert arched an eyebrow. Bureaucracy could be cumbersome that way, but it was odd, none the less. Well, at least the young fellow had the foresight to make backup.

‘When you’re discharged I want to see them.’

Enjolras merely shot him a questioning look. Javert shrugged.

‘You may be a nosy pain in the neck but I never knew you as someone who would lie about something so serious. I want to see what happened there.’

‘He bought the jury, that’s what’s happened.’ Enjolras murmured under his breath.

‘Or you misinterpreted something.’

‘Why are you so bent on protecting him?’

Ah, good, a flicker of spirit.

‘I’m not. I just want to take a look at the case myself.’

Enjolras nodded.

Javert didn’t exactly believe the boy to be right, but then he didn’t think he was driven by malicious intent or actively lying either. Maybe if he looked over his files he’d see what made him arrive to the conclusion that Beaudreau was guilty… And it would come with the added bonus of buying time and making Enjolras think someone was still taking him seriously.

Proud of his plan, he leant back in his chair. Then paused.

What if he was right? After all, criminals could turn out to be decent people. Surely that meant the inverse must be true too, that respectable, successful people could be scum? There was no shortage of wealthy murderers, killing more often than not for even more money. But surely if the journalist’s evidence was solid, or even passable the jury wouldn’t have dismissed it so easily?

Were they really bought? But if even criminal justice wasn’t above corruption, then what _was_?

Javert shifted, uncomfortable. The silence was getting awkward again.

‘You have a pack of friends, don’t you? Have they been visiting?’

Enjolras murmured something barely audible.

‘What was that?’

‘I didn’t tell them.’

There was a pause.

‘You didn’t tell them.’

Enjolras looked up at him, irritated and defensive.

‘All of them are out of town, some out of the country too. Have been for a while now. They can’t come and help me and I would just worry them unnecessarily.’

Aha. Javert was no psychologist, but this little outburst sounded like it could very well be a part of that metaphorical hay-sack.

‘I’m not an expert of friendship, but use your head. Surely if one of them got shot you’d want to know about it?’

‘Yes. But _they_ are important.’

For a few moments they were glaring at each other. Then Javert slowly raised an eyebrow.

‘Or maybe it’s because if they came, sooner or later you’d have to explain what you were doing on that rooftop in the first place.’

Enjolras looked away.

‘Come on. Call them. Maybe they can help with that too.’

Silence.

‘You don’t have to tell them everything all at once, just call them.’

More silence. Then a slow, slow nod.

‘Excellent’ said Javert, standing up.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Well… this’ said Enjolras awkwardly, sending a questioning look at the carnations.

‘Three reasons. First, you’ve saved my life and I hate being in debt. Second, if you’re right about Beaudreau, then he’s a criminal who needs to be stopped and punished. Third, well… Third, I’ve been there too.

With that he quickly ducked out the door and was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> The title was meant to be a reference to the Little Prince, where at one point the titular prince tames and befriends a fox.


End file.
